


Crash Course in Compassion

by HazelMaeve



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry is 15 though so don't expect anything risque, M/M, Multi, but it's Snarry, idk if I would call this Snarry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-27 00:23:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14413662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelMaeve/pseuds/HazelMaeve
Summary: Harry is late to his detention with Umbridge. During his sprint to the other side of the castle, he runs into the only person who could make his situation worse: Snape. What happens in the days and weeks that follow will alter the course of Harry's life and the war. Takes place during OOTP. Mild Snarry if you squint.





	1. Collisions and Connivance

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for clicking! The main point of this story is to explore how Harry and Severus's relationship might change if they set aside their enmity and helped one another. This is pure angst and rather one-sided romance, so if you're looking for smut, this fic may not be for you! I do hope you enjoy it, however. Please let me know what you think.  
> -Hazel

_ What seems to us as bitter trials are often blessings in disguise. _

_ -Oscar Wilde _

* * *

 

Harry was going to be late. There was no avoiding it. 

His detention was at 5 pm, as per usual, and he had thought he would have time to bolt down something for dinner before setting off for Umbridge’s office. However, Ron and Ginny had seated themselves directly across from him, locked in an intense discussion about Quidditch. Harry had leapt in to offer his own points, and when he at last came to his senses, he realized he had five minutes to book it all the way to the other end of the castle. 

Trying hard not to think of what Umbridge would do to him if -- no,  _ when --  _ Harry showed up late to his detention, Harry ran as fast as he could along the 3rd floor corridor, his footsteps echoing in the empty hall. Nearly all the other students were at dinner, and the staff. The only people who had been absent from the Head Table were Snape, who was rarely seen in the dining hall anyhow; Hagrid, who still had not returned from his mysterious mission for the Order; and Umbridge herself, who was no doubt sitting in her office, relishing the opportunity to further punish Harry.

His hand still hadn’t healed from last week’s detention, and in Transfiguration that morning he had been absently picking the scab, until at last he looked down to see his hand was once again bleeding profusely. Without a doubt, Umbridge would have him carving deep into the wounds once more, working late into the night.

He was nearly there. Gasping, with a terrible stitch in his side, Harry made to turn sharply around the corner that led to the next floor, when -- 

**_WHAM!_ **

Harry collided with something solid, forcefully enough to send him crashing to the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, his head spinning, the back of his skull smarting from where it had hit the cold stone floor. He sat up and blinked, adjusted his glasses, and at that moment it became clear what it was he had run into at full speed.

It was perhaps the one person who could make Harry’s situation even worse, other than Umbridge herself: Snape. Snape, who had been carrying a tray of glass bottles full of clear potion, which were now smashed all over the floor. Snape looked from the broken glass at his feet to the boy on the floor before him.

“... _ Potter.”  _ His voice was deadly. Harry was forcibly reminded of a coiled snake, except this  _ wasn’t  _ a coiled snake, this was even worse. Harry felt as though he had tread on the tail of a ferocious black dragon that now had its obsidian eyes fixed on him, narrowed in fury and dislike.

“What is the meaning of this?” Snape hissed, his face pale with suppressed rage. “What could possibly be so important that you have to travel at light speed?”

“I’m late for a detention--”

“I cannot say I’m surprised _ \-- _ ”

“--With Professor Umbridge,” Harry finished anxiously. He was now at least 5 minutes late. He could feel his hand smarting painfully, and it would only get worse during his detention. He flexed his fingers and felt pain shoot up his arm. The cuts were open and bleeding again.

Snape raised one dark eyebrow. 

“Surely even  _ you,  _ Potter, know that Dolores Umbridge is one of the last people with whom you should seek quarrel? And yet here you are, landing yourself in weekly detentions with the woman. I cannot say I’m s _ urprised _ , of course -- You would do anything to get a moment in the spotlight, wouldn’t you? Fame certainly has made you reckless, Potter.” Snape waved his hand and the broken glass disappeared from the floor.

Harry bit back a retort. As much as he wanted to defend himself, he didn’t want to land himself in a detention with Snape. Of course, Snape, menacing as he was, had never forced Harry to write with his own blood. Harry suddenly realized that he would much rather spend the evening labeling potions ingredients and listening to Snape drawl on about the idiocy of Gryffindors than sit in Umbridge’s office, slicing open his own hand. Maybe, if he could make Snape angry enough, he would make Harry come with him to detention right then? Maybe Harry could avoid Umbridge altogether?

“Yeah, that’s right. So what?” Harry said, his heart hammering as Snape’s expression turned to stone. “I imagine you can’t afford to be reckless, Snape.” Harry gathered his courage and tried to keep his voice from faltering. “What with Voldemort constantly breathing down your neck--”

Harry realized a split second too late that he had stepped over the line. Snape looked, for a moment, as though he would punch Harry squarely in the face. He didn’t. Instead, he took a menacing step forward, his hand closing tightly around Harry’s wrist, tight enough to make Harry yelp. Harry found his feet leaving the ground; he dangled by his wrist as Snape easily held him in the air with one arm, lifting Harry so he could look directly into his eyes. 

“Excuse me?” Snape’s voice was no more than a hiss. “How dare you speak that name so casually, speak _my_ name so casually, I am your professor and you will treat me as such!” Harry felt his fingers going numb as Snape tightened his grip. “It is not of your concern what I do for _Him,_ you are just a child, an arrogant child who thinks the world will end when you do. Stop acting like you understand. You will _never_ understand.”

Harry twisted his wrist in a futile attempt at escape, and felt all the negative feelings he’d been suffering through since June rise to the surface. The misuse. The shame. The anger. Fear, confusion, hate, indignance, impatience, rage, rage, rage -- He twisted, dropped to his feet and scrambled away, bile rising in his throat as he fought back angry tears.

“ _ I don’t understand!  _ I know that! But the thing is, none of you adults will  _ let  _ me understand! You don’t tell me anything! Dumbledore -- Dumbledore’s been keeping me in the dark for months! It’s like, you people automatically assume that my pathetic little brain can’t handle this stuff! Well  _ obviously  _ I can, otherwise I’d be dead!  _ Voldemort  _ would have killed me ages ago! I wish you would trust me, it’s my life, I should have a say in how it ends!”

“Potter.”

“No! Don’t ‘Potter’ me! I’m sick of it, I’m sick of being treated like some stupid kid, like after I fought the dementors, all anyone could say was ‘Stay in your house, don’t mess anything else up’! I want to be taken seriously, I want to know what’s going on so that I can help put a stop to it, not shoved aside and forced to let the grown-ups handle it!”

“ _ Potter.” _

“All anyone seems to care about is making sure I behave like a good little boy who doesn’t know anything about the world! I’m not going to shut up and act like there isn’t a madman out there trying to do me in! I want to fight, let me fight! Don’t tell me I don’t understand, if you won’t even let me try!”

“ _ Potter!  _ Your hand!”

Harry stopped pacing. He was so angry, he hadn’t even noticed the throbbing pain in his hand as the cuts split open; now they were steadily streaming blood onto the floor. He gasped and tried to staunch the bleeding on his jumper, but Snape caught his wrist again and stretched Harry’s hand out in front of him. Jet black eyes scanned the words carved into Harry’s skin. Snape frowned severely.

“Did you do this to yourself?”

“Er -- what?”

“Did you do this on purpose?” 

Harry was silent, and rather bewildered. Was Snape still angry? The hold tightened on Harry’s wrist, as though Snape were trying to squeeze the answers out of him. Harry relented, eyes on his trainers.

“No... No, of course I didn’t do this to myself. I… It’s from my detention.” Harry said. 

“Dolores Umbridge… did this?” Snape’s expression was unreadable, his eyes a gateway into a turbulent black sea.

“Well, not exactly. She -- She has this special quill, it doesn’t need any ink, um…. When you write with it, the words are cut into your hand. And they appear on the paper in… in your own blood.” Harry tried to keep his tone light, as though this wasn’t anything to be concerned about. When he looked up at Snape, he saw that the man was staring back at him as though unable to believe what he had heard.

“This…  _ This _ is what you’ve been doing in your detentions with her?”

“Not just me. She’s done it to Lee Jordan and Fred and George Weasley, too. I think it’s her… Favourite punishment.”

There was a long, stony silence. Harry watched Snape closely. Snape wasn’t looking at him; he was still examining the deep cuts on the back of Harry’s hand. Finally, he spoke.

“Come with me.” He said, leaving no room for argument. Letting go of Harry’s wrist, Snape led him down the hall, away from Umbridge’s office, down the corridor, and through a door to the right. Snape led them down a steep set of stairs, the walls made of moist stone bricks like the rest of the dungeons. At the bottom of the staircase, they turned down a dark, damp hallway, passing several doors that led to somewhere Harry could only guess. At the end was a narrow wooden door, which seemed ill-fitted for its frame. Snape turned the tarnished knob and led them both inside. 

Harry blinked, finding himself in the potions classroom. Turning back to the door they had come through, he tried to remember seeing it before. There were the heavy double doors that the students usually came through, the locked door to Snape’s supply storeroom -- the one which Hermione had once stolen from -- and this one, which was behind Snape’s desk, and had apparently gone unnoticed by Harry for five years.

Harry was interrupted from his puzzling by Snape clearing his throat impatiently. Turning, he saw Snape by the door to his storeroom, holding a bottle of anomalous green liquid. 

“If you’re finished gawking, Potter,” Snape hissed, sneer in place. Feeling thoroughly wrong-footed, Harry approached Snape in much the same way one would approach an angry panther; slowly, with much trepidation, and preferably not at all. Snape held out his hand; Harry hesitated fractionally before extending his own. Taking him by the wrist, Snape examined the deep cuts on Harry’s hand, frowning. He uncorked the potion and poured a single drop onto the wounds.

Harry had the peculiar sensation that his hand had been submerged in cool water; even as he watched, deep cuts sealed and faded, blood evaporated and all lingering pain receded. For a few moments Snape examined the thin white lines that now marked Harry’s hand, the only sign that Harry had ever been injured. Seemingly satisfied, Snape released him and returned to his storeroom, leaving Harry to stare in awe at the back of his hand.

It was totally healed. Harry flexed his fingers without any pain; he could barely make out the words that had once been carved so deeply into his skin. He looked up as Snape reentered.

“What kind of potion was that? Er, Sir.” He added, remembering who he was talking to. His anger for the dark man was somewhat quelled by his newfound interest. Snape watched Harry for a moment, as though deciding whether to answer or not.  
“A healing solution, of my own design. Usually there would still be quite a bit of scarring, but your injury wasn’t serious to begin with.” 

For a moment, Harry was left to wonder what kind of serious injuries the potion  _ had _ been designed for. Then Snape spoke again, drawing Harry from his thoughts.

“Now then, Potter.” Snape slowly walked around his desk to stand behind his chair, surveying Harry lethally through long, dark lashes. “About your detention. Your detention with Umbridge,” He added, seeing Harry’s alarmed expression. “What exactly did you do to land yourself with so many? Clearly tonight was not your first.”

Harry was hesitant to answer. Usually he tried to avoid conversation with Snape at all times, but he was more or less trapped in the dungeons with Snape standing in the way of the exit, so there was no way to avoid it.

“For disrespect. And for talking out of turn.” He paused, while Snape looked unsurprised. “Also…. I told her and the class about seeing Voldemort return.”

Snape went rigid as Harry spoke the name, his eyes darkening. 

“You told her,” He hissed, his eyes mere slits, “You told Dolores Umbridge of the Dark Lord’s return,  _ in front of the class,  _ and landed yourself in detention for it?”

“I just told the truth!” Harry exclaimed. “She called me a liar, I wasn’t going to take that--”

“That is  _ not _ the point!” Snape growled, slamming his fist down on his desk so hard an ink bottle fell to the floor and smashed. “The point is that Umbridge is directly reporting to Cornelius Fudge, who will take every opportunity to discredit you and the Headmaster, Potter!

“You really want to be of use to the Order, Potter? You want to be helpful, do you? Then you can start by keeping your  _ damn _ mouth shut in her presence! If the wizarding world is to be informed of His return, the prime witness -- that would be  _ you,  _ Potter -- cannot be seen as a lunatic who wants another chance in the spotlight! Do you understand?”

Harry was silent, staring in shock into Snape’s jet-black eyes. Anger radiated from the man, but something else lingered; anxiety? Frustration? Desperation?

Harry opened and closed his mouth several times before he was able to formulate a reply. When he did, it came out somewhat weaker than he expected, and he stuttered over his words, subdued by Snape’s outburst.

“But… it’s the truth, you know it is, Dumbledore knows it is.... Being called a liar, everyone thinking you’re crazy, or evil… it’s awful.”

Snape bowed his head, grasping the back of his desk chair. His long black hair swung down to hide his face. Harry was silent, watching in quiet alarm as Snape seemed to stiffen before him. He truly was dreadfully thin, and the ever-present purple smudges beneath his eyes were darker than ever before. When he spoke, it was little more than a whisper through tightly clenched teeth.

“I know. I know it is, Potter. But people are desperate to believe everything is alright, everything is fine, nothing is coming for them. They are  _ afraid,  _ Potter, and fear can turn even the best of men into an animal.”

There was a heavy silence. Harry stared at the sallow man before him, whose black eyes were tunnels into the darkest of hells. Their gaze met for a fleeting moment, and Harry swallowed hard; the back of his throat burned and he blinked and looked away.

“It’s just so frustrating,” He ground out, fists curled at his side.  _ If I cry in front of Snape, I’ll have to kill myself,  _ he thought. He blinked again.

Snape’s only reply was a short, quiet sigh. He crossed the room and opened the heavy oak doors, standing to the side.

“Return to your common room, Potter.” Snape said, his eyes unreadable once more. “You have missed your detention. I will inform Umbridge that you were ill.”

Harry knew that Umbridge would just reschedule the detention to tomorrow night, and probably make it twice as long. Apparently, Snape had foreseen this as well, and was already several steps ahead.

“You will also serve detention with me, tomorrow night. You will report to my office at five o’clock sharp.” He said, his trademark sneer firmly in place. “No need to slice up your hand when I went to all the trouble of fixing it.”

Harry gaped at the sneering man, once again standing tall and proud, black eyes glinting. After a moment, Harry dared to return it with a tiny smile of his own, hardly believing he was sharing a joke with the Potions Master.

“Yes, sir.” he said, as he made to leave. “I’ll try to control my temper from now on.” Snape smirked at him, his eyes alight with mirth.

“It would seem Hell has frozen over.” Snape said, and closed the door with a snap.


	2. Cold Caress

_But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?_

_-Mark Twain_

* * *

 

Harry awoke the next morning just after dawn. As the events from the previous evening returned to him, he was filled with relief as he remembered that he did not have another detention with Umbridge that night. Normally detention with Snape would not be cause for celebration by any means, but it was better that sitting in Umbridge’s office for hours at a time, cutting open his hand and writing with his own blood. The coolness of his healed hand was a blessed relief, and he had enjoyed a good night’s rest for the first time in weeks. He turned his head to where Ron was sleeping in his own four-poster bed; he had been so tired from Quidditch practice the evening before that he was already asleep when Harry had returned from his encounter with Snape. Hermione, on the other hand, had seen the healed cuts on the back of Harry’s hand, and peppered him with questions.

“Did you finally go to Madam Pomfrey? Or Professor McGonagall? What spells did they use? That’s really quite impressive work.”

Harry considered telling her that he had healed the cuts himself after researching healing spells in the library, but he doubted Hermione would believe that. For whatever reason, Harry did not want to tell Hermione and Ron what had happened the night before. He did not wish to discuss Snape, or to hear their exclamations of surprise upon hearing what he had done for Harry, for Harry was still having trouble believing it himself. All through breakfast he kept glancing down at his own hand and was each time surprised to find it healed. 

For the first time in all his years at Hogwarts, Harry was not dreading his detention with Snape. However, he  _ was _ dreading trying to explain to Umbridge why he wouldn’t be serving detention with her that night. She would no doubt be angry, and would probably assign him three extra detentions to make up for it. As he walked to Defense Against the Dark Arts he rehearsed in is head what he would tell her, and was feeling quite sure of himself when he took his seat at the back of the room. However, when Umbridge herself entered the classroom and he looked into her broad, flabby face, he found his confidence dwindling. This would not be easy.

He waited until class was over. As the rest of the students began filing out of the room, he told Ron and Hermione he needed to ask Umbridge something. The two of them exchanged bewildered glances but agreed to wait in the corridor. When the others had left and Harry was alone with Umbridge, she looked at him in mild surprise and gave a falsely sweet smile that made Harry’s stomach turn over.

“Is there something you need, Mr. Potter?” She simpered, and though her voice was as high-pitched and breathy as always, her gaze was quite cold. She was undoubtedly angry that Harry had managed to worm his way out of detention with her; he did not want to imagine how she would react upon hearing that he would be missing another.

Steeling himself, Harry approached her desk, wiping his sweaty palms discreetly on his robes. “Er, actually, Professor--” How he hated to call her that! “--There’s something I need to tell you, er, about my detention tonight. See, I actually, er, made Professor Snape very angry, so I, er…” He found he could not look into her small, beady eyes as he said it. “He’s given me detention tonight, and says I absolutely have to come, so I, er… I can’t serve detention with you tonight.”

Umbridge’s wide, toad-like face stretched in a horrible gloating smile. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Mr. Potter, you may have been ill last night-- if what Professor Snape has told me is to be believed-- but I will not allow you to miss two detentions in a row. This detention has been in place for nearly a week. As the High Inquisitor my decision takes precedence. You will have to serve your detention with Professor Snape another night, I’m afraid.” She did not sound very ‘afraid’ at all.

Harry could hear his blood pounding in his ears. He was furious and would have liked nothing more than to bring his copy of  _ Defensive Magical Theory _ down on Umbridge’s head. There had to be a way out of this, he was desperate, but who could he possibly go to for help? Umbridge was right, she had given him detention that night first. Not even Dumbledore could argue with that. Now, not only would he have his hand sliced open again, but Snape would be angry at Harry for canceling the detention he had set for him. His two least favourite teachers on his back-- how could this situation get any worse?

Unable to speak, Harry merely nodded stiffly and turned on his heel to leave. As he opened the door, Umbridge called out to him in her smug, high-pitched voice.

“Remember, 5 o’clock, Mr. Potter.”

Harry’s only response was to slam the classroom door behind him, seething. Ron and Hermione immediately rushed to his side, looking concerned.

“What was that all about?” Ron said, leading the group down the corridor towards Professor Flitwick’s classroom; they had Charms next. “What did Umbridge want?”

“You haven’t been given more detentions, have you?” Hermione asked, wringing her hands. Harry shook his head numbly, his rage fading away to be replaced with resignation.

“No. It’s nothing. I just wanted to ask about my detention tonight.” He paused, considering whether he should tell them, and decided that there was no point in hiding it. “Snape had given me detention tonight, too, but I have to do Umbridge’s. Hers takes priority.”

Hermione frowned. “What did you do to make Snape give you detention?” She asked, and Harry hesitated.

_ He gave me detention to get me out of the one with Umbridge, _ he thought, and despite all the negative feelings he harbored for Snape he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of gratitude, even though Snape’s attempt hadn’t worked out. But he couldn’t tell Ron and Hermione that. “I got a D on my Moonstones essay,” He said, which was the truth, although it hadn’t landed him in detention. “He was going to make me redo it tonight. Which I’d much rather do than have  _ this _ bleeding again.” He waved his freshly healed hand in the air. “It’s official. Umbridge is worse than Snape. A thousand times worse.”

Ron nodded in sympathy; he of course disliked Snape, but Harry had never come back from a detention with Snape bleeding profusely. Hermione, on the other hand, looked reproachful. 

“Of course she’s worse than him, Harry, he’s a spy for the Order, and she’s a spy for Fudge!” She went on even though Harry was in no mood to hear her spiel. “If you would stop being stubborn and take this to Dumbledore, he might be able to--”

“Drop it, Hermione.” Ron said gently, as they entered the Great Hall for lunch; Harry had become quiet and taciturn again, and Ron and Hermione did not disturb him for the remainder of the hour. When lunch was over, Hermione departed for Arithmancy, while Ron and Harry set off for the tower that housed the Divination classroom. 

Harry found it even more difficult to concentrate on his dream diary than usual. Ron agreed to come up with a suitable dream for him, leaving Harry to his own thoughts. He found himself dwelling on his detention that evening, and wondered at how he had awoken that morning feeling so cheerful that he would be able to skip it. If only he  _ could _ take this to Dumbledore, and have him step in and put an end to Harry’s torment. But Umbridge was quite within her rights to give Harry detention, despite her abhorrent methods of discipline; besides, Harry did not want to go to Dumbledore for help when the headmaster had seemingly made an effort to avoid Harry all year. 

He supposed he would have to tell Snape that he couldn’t do his detention that night, although Harry didn’t have Potions class that day, so it would be difficult to track Snape down for conversation. He decided he would go down to the dungeons during dinnertime, before his detention with Umbridge. Snape wouldn’t be happy, but Harry found he wasn’t as nervous to cancel his detention with Snape as he had been when trying to do the same with Umbridge. Perhaps it was because he had known Snape for five years, and was used to his biting remarks and cold, cruel gaze. He certainly had never kept Harry in detention until after midnight or sent him away covered in blood.

So, at 4:30 PM when classes were over and the rest of the school was on its way to dinner, Harry was on his way down to the dungeons. He knew Snape wouldn’t be in the Great Hall, for Harry almost never saw him eating with the other teachers. In fact, given Snape’s sickly complexion and thin physique, Harry wondered if the Potions master ever ate at all.

He would have served his detention in Snape’s office, if he had been able to attend, but when he arrived he found it empty. Harry assumed he must still be in the Potions classroom. However, he found the classroom was deserted as well, the ingredients from the last lesson of the day still written on the blackboard.

_ Perhaps he went up to dinner after all, _ Harry thought. Before he gave up his search, he decided he would check the Marauder’s Map, because if Snape thought Harry had purposely skipped his detention with him he would no doubt be furious. The map was lodged between his copy of  _ The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5 _ and  _ Defensive Magical Theory  _ by Wilbert Slinkhard. He opened the map, tapped it with his wand, and murmured, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The map appeared, and he could see the tiny footprints of hundreds of students throughout the school. He saw Draco Malfoy quite nearby in the Slytherin dormitory; he saw Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan standing together in a third floor corridor; he saw Ron and Hermione in the Great Hall, seated across from Fred and George. His eyes scanned the map for Snape’s name. He looked at the Head Table, but saw no sign of Snape. He searched the dungeons and teacher’s lounge, but he was not there; he searched classrooms and corridors and Dumbledore’s office, and he was not there. Indeed, Harry searched the whole of the map, and Severus Snape was not anywhere.

For reasons he could not explain, Harry began to feel a cold, creeping sensation in the pit of his stomach, and when he saw that Dumbledore’s footprints were once again pacing up and down the length of his office, as though the headmaster were anxious or worried, Harry began to understand where Snape had gone.

“ _ Voldemort. _ ” Harry whispered, and he glanced fearfully up and down the corridor as though he expected the wizard in question to materialize in front of him. Harry turned and hurried towards the stairs that would lead him out of the dungeons. He pushed his way through a group of startled second-years at the top of the staircase and raced towards the Great Hall. Umbridge and her magic quill could wait; he had to tell Ron and Hermione.

* * *

 

“ _ What? _ Are you sure?” Hermione whispered, her eyes wide with fear. She, Ron and Harry were hidden in an alcove in the corridor that led to the Gryffindor common room; Hermione had cast a cloaking spell so that no one passing by would notice them. 

“Yes, that has to be it.” Harry said, speaking in an excited whisper. “He’s not anywhere on the map, even though he planned for me to come to detention in fifteen minutes. And Dumbledore is pacing in his office-- he’s been doing that a lot this year, sometimes late into the night-- and I never could figure out why, until now. It’s like he’s waiting for something. It must be Snape!” 

“But Harry, if he  _ is _ with V-Voldemort-- oh, get a hold of yourself, Ron-- then he could be in serious trouble.” Hermione looked sick with worry; she twisted her hands in the fabric of her robes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “I mean, have you seen him recently? He looks really unwell, and his face is even thinner than usual…”

“But I mean, You-Know-Who trusts him, right?” Ron said anxiously. “And he was a Death Eater for a while. He probably knows what he’s doing.”

Hermione did not look convinced. Harry didn’t know what to think; should he be worried? Even if Snape  _ was _ in danger, did he, Harry, have any reason why he should care? After all, he hated Snape. He always had. But now, something was different. If Snape had gone off to Voldemort two nights ago Harry would not have given the man a second thought. But each time he looked down at his healed hand, he was reminded of what Snape had said about the potion he had used: that there would usually be quite a bit of scarring, but Harry’s injury wasn’t as serious as the wounds the potion had been designed to treat. Did Snape often return from Death Eater gatherings injured? Or had he been referring to something else? Was Harry reading into Snape’s words too much? His head was spinning.

Harry, Ron and Hermione decided that the best course of action was to wait and see what became of the situation. If Dumbledore was pacing about his office in agitation, then he likely already knew where Snape was, and would know right away when he returned. Harry went off to his detention with Umbridge, the knowledge that at that moment Snape might be standing before Lord Voldemort weighing heavily on his mind.

If Umbridge was surprised to see that Harry’s hand was healed, she didn’t show it. Indeed, it hardly mattered that his wound was gone, for within the first five minutes of his detention it was back and bleeding harder than even. He actually began to feel lightheaded as blood streamed down his wrist, pooled on the desk and dripped onto the floor. Each time he was forced to cut into his hand his hatred for Umbridge deepened.  _ I must-- I hate her-- not tell-- I hate her!-- lies. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her! _ He imagined Umbridge’s blood dripping down his wrist instead, from a dagger he had in her heart. He imagined beating her with a chair and pushing her off the North tower of the castle. He imagined sending  _ her _ off to face Voldemort-- who she didn’t even believe had returned!-- and letting her fend for herself. He learned something that night-- that he was capable of very wicked thoughts indeed, and that he actually possessed far more self control than Snape gave him credit for. If he was as impulsive and reckless as many people thought, Umbridge would already be dead.

She released him after midnight, as usual. Harry traipsed back to the common room and up to his dormitory; he pulled the hangings shut around his bed and sat hunched against the headboard, his bleeding hand wrapped in one of Uncle Vernon’s old t-shirts and his eyes blurry with exhaustion. 

He looked down at the stained, too-large shirt that covered his hand. He had never once owned a brand-new t-shirt in his life. He was given Uncle Vernon’s or Dudley’s or, if he was lucky, Aunt Petunia would take him to a thrift shop and let him choose a shirt is it was under £3. The first pair of “new” underwear he had ever owned had been a pair of Ron’s, that Ron gave him because he noticed Harry’s were full of holes. 

Hogwarts had become his safe haven, his refuge, a place where people actually cared about him, where he always had enough to eat, where Uncle Vernon’s fists could not reach him. He had met his first friends, received his first words of praise, eaten his first piece of treacle tart, and felt at home for the first time, all within the castle’s walls. And now, Dolores Umbridge was making him wish he were back in his bedroom at Privet Drive. 

Harry was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. He knew if he slept, he would dream of the locked door at the end of the dark corridor again, but he could not bring himself to care. He burrowed down under his quilt and shut his eyes, and within moments, he was asleep.

Almost immediately, a dream began. But he was not in a dimly-lit corridor with a plain black door at the end; he was seated in a grand upholstered armchair in a dark, high-ceilinged room, the only source of light being the fire in the hearth before him. Harry’s hands were steepled before his chin, and in the firelight he saw they were ghostly white and long-fingered. The room was silent but for the crackling of the fire, when from the shadows behind him a man spoke in a low voice.

“My Lord… He will die if nothing is done.” The voice sounded as if the person speaking were quite troubled, and was trying hard to disguise it. “Perhaps I should… Take him back to the castle.”

“Not yet.” Harry said in a high, cold voice. “Let him bleed a bit longer. Pain is, after all, the best teacher.” From somewhere in the room, a high-pitched voice snickered.

“B-But… My Lord…” The man continued, his voice shaking slightly. “Dumbledore will know… He surely will not keep quiet about this… I fear if we let him die, public suspicion may rise…”

At last, Harry turned his head to glare at the man behind him. There, half-hidden in the shadows and frozen with fear, stood Lucius Malfoy, wringing his hands, his eyebrows drawn together in a display of concern. Harry found this rather amusing. Malfoy’s eyes widened as he met Harry’s gaze, and he quickly looked down at his shoes, his face a mask of terror. However, it would seem desperation made the man bolder, for after a moment Malfoy looked up, and continued. 

“I beseech you, Master, to think about this-- He is, after all, your spy, your greatest asset… I believe losing him would be detrimental to our cause.” Malfoy glanced over his shoulder; he uttered a short, quiet gasp, and when he turned back to Harry his eyes were wide with panic. He went on with renewed urgency, sounding close to tears. “My Lord-- My Lord-- I beg of you, please-- Let me take him back, let me take him to Dumbledore, I will do anything, anything--” Across the room, the high, squeaky voice tittered again.

“Quiet, Wormtail.” Harry said, very softly. Immediately the laughter stopped. Harry surveyed Lucius coldly, considering his words. Then, coming to a decision, Harry waved his hand in dismissal. “Very well, Lucius, your appeal has been noticed. You may go. I will decide what to do with him. Leave, now. And you, Wormtail.”

There was the sound of a door opening and closing as Wormtail immediately scurried from the room, but Lucius hesitated, looking as though he might say more. Harry glared at him, and spoke in a quiet, menacing voice. “Do you disobey me, Lucius?” He saw the man jump slightly, the color draining from his face. “Do you wish to end up like him?”

Lucius needed no further persuading. He bowed quickly and retreated to the door, shooting a worried over his shoulder at something in the middle of the room, and departed. Left alone, Harry examined the tips of his long, white fingers, thinking. Then, he stood up and slowly paced around the armchair, directing his gaze to the rug in the center of the room, hidden in shadows. There was something there that was darker than the rest of the room, jet black among hues of green and grey. Harry approached the shape and knelt down beside it; holding out his wand, he whispered “ _ Lumos, _ ” and the room was bathed in a pale white light.

There on the rug was a man, lying crumpled on the floor in a slowly widening pool of blood, his cloak spread out around him and his hair over his face. It was a thin man, with sallow skin and long black hair that shone in the light from Harry’s wand. The man’s robes had come unbuttoned at the neck, leaving his sharp collar bones and one strong shoulder exposed. Harry felt the desire to run his nails across that smooth, olive skin, but he did not. Instead, he reached out and placed a single finger on the man’s long, slender neck, feeling the pulse there; it was rapid and very faint, and Harry knew he did not have long. 

“You’re quite lucky, you know.” Harry whispered. “I would have done worse, but Wormtail was enjoying himself far too much. Besides, I need you.” Harry brushed the long, dark hair off of the man’s face, a hollow parody of a loving gesture. “Now, it’s time I returned you to your other master, Severus.”

Miles away, tucked in a four-poster bed in his cozy dormitory, Harry Potter woke up with a hammering heart. 


End file.
